


my body is a temple

by sirfeit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Depression, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Prostitution, Subdrop, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts, don't forget aftercare kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:27:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8121736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: murphy is an escort. bellamy is his driver. they're roommates. bellamy is hopelessly in love. murphy is asexual.they get together at the end of the story.previously titled 'portions for foxes'





	1. bellamy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the Everyone Is Happy Modern AU i've been working on for awhile
> 
> there will be sex at the end of this
> 
> title from Rilo Kiley's song "Portions for Foxes"

When John Murphy meets Bellamy Blake in the library, he holds his hand out to shake and says, “John?”

And Murphy raises his hand to ward him off, and says “Just Murphy, please.”

Murphy is darkly charismatic and seems pretty chill, and when Bellamy asks him what his major is, he pauses just a little too long before he says, “Anthropology.”

Bellamy doesn’t press him. It’s not really his business.

—

Octavia is the one who introduced him to Murphy, and in return he had allowed for their apartment to be taken over once a week for Bad Movie Night, an apparent tradition between the two of them. Octavia makes [puppy chow](http://showmetheyummy.com/best-puppy-chow-recipe-aka-muddy-buddies/) and brings it over in a huge bowl, and she and Murphy huddle close together and insult the protagonists of [Sharknado 2: The Second One ](https://youtu.be/pgpX2J7_7G8?t=1m48s)and discuss the merits of a movie that is _trying_ to be bad, rather than one that earnestly tries its best. 

“So is this really going to happen _every_ week?” asks Bellamy, attempting to do TA work in the dining room.

“Nah,” says Octavia. “Next week we’ll have more people. No offense, Bell, but it’s hard to convince people to come over when you don’t even have a couch.”

Murphy laughs.

—

The next day, Murphy calls him while he’s standing outside their apartment building next to a large leather couch. It’s kind of a nice couch. “Hey,” he says. “I kind of need your help.”

“How did you even get it this far,” asks Bellamy, incredulous. 

“I thrifted it,” is all Murphy will say on the subject, but he holds his end of the couch easily enough, and Bellamy admires the span of his shoulders and accepts it as truth.

—

He works in the library until five most nights, although as exam season approaches, the library stays open later and later. Murphy always seems to be home when he gets home, but leaves nearer to nine or ten for work. He had asked Murphy where he works once, and Murphy had just replied “Yeah,” distracted, and Bellamy had left it. 

 One night he comes back to the apartment to find Murphy clutching his phone, staring out the doorway hopelessly at the empty street — empty except for Bellamy’s car. “Is everything okay?” he asks, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

Murphy looks down at his phone, blinks several times, and then turns a charming smile to him. “Hey,” he says. “Do you want to make some cash dollars?”

“Sure,” says Bellamy, easy. He’s always up for some disposable income.

“Okay,” says Murphy, handing his phone to Bellamy. “Can you drive me to this address? And then back again when I call you? I’ll pay you $40 round-trip as soon as I get off.” Inexplicably, he flushes, and corrects himself to: “As soon as I get out. On the way back.”

He looks at the address. It’s about a ten minute drive, but not something he’d want to walk, especially not in the dark. “Yeah,” he says. “I know how to get there. You ready to go now?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, relieved all at once, and then he has to wait the interminable thirty seconds that it takes Bellamy to pull his shoes back on. 

—

They listen to the CD that Bellamy has in his car, something by [the Mountain Goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rwLkEpxSC0&list=PL68EF2BAA7E6782C4), although he doesn’t remember what. Murphy doesn’t really look at him, just stares out the window, occasionally glancing at his phone.

“If you could, park across the street — yeah,” he says as Bellamy pulls in. “So, I’ll call you when I’m done, right? Keep your phone on, you usually have it on silent.”

He’s getting his Master’s in _library science,_ of course he usually has his phone on silent. “Okay,” he says.

Murphy slams the door on his way out. Bellamy watches as he walks up to the house in the growing twilight, fixes his hair. Murphy glances down at his phone again, and then the door opens. Light spills out onto the porch. Murphy pulls a warm smile onto his face, enters, and then the door shuts behind them.

Bellamy drives home.

—

Murphy texts him once: _hey I’m ready,_ and then as he’s pulling on his jacket, calls him. “Yeah,” he says into the phone. “I’m on my way.” He cradles the phone in between his jaw and his shoulder as he opens the door and starts the car.

“Oh,” says Murphy, sounding kind of startled. “Thanks.”

He parks across the street again, watches as Murphy comes through the door, as the porch light turns on as he steps across the threshold, as Murphy opens the passenger side door and clambers in. He looks a little more ruffled than he had previously: his lips are kind of swollen and there’s a red mark on his throat, like a thumbprint or — or like a bite. 

Murphy is holding two twenty-dollar bills out to him. Bellamy takes them, folds them into his wallet. Easiest $40 he’s ever made.

“You’re a — an escort,” says his mouth without his permission.

Murphy stiffens. “A sex worker,” he corrects. “A prostitute. A whore. Yes. You got a problem with that?”

Bellamy searches his heart. He doesn’t, but — “You’re really an anthropology major? You’ve read [Whelehan](https://www.amazon.com/Anthropological-Perspective-Prostitution-Profession-Anthropology/dp/0773476040), then?”

Murphy kind of shrugs. “I’m taking a semester off. And yeah, I have. I just needed to do some field research.” Bellamy’s not sure if he’s joking, but Murphy continues anyway. “You wanna make this driving thing a regular thing? I can give you a cut of whatever I make.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, and now he’s pulling on his seatbelt, so Bellamy shifts gears into _drive._

“Sure,” says Bellamy. “I’m good with that.”

—

The only night Murphy seems to take off is Bad Movie Night, once a week, Thursdays. Octavia is in charge of the invitations, which is how Bombshell Blonde Clarke Griffin appears at one of their gatherings, along with Octavia’s usual crowd: Jasper, Monty, Lincoln, Maya. They watch a movie called _[Ice Twisters](https://youtu.be/pgpX2J7_7G8?t=1m48s), _ which is suitably awful, and eat a lot of popcorn. 

After everyone has left, Octavia lingers, cleaning up. “I’m spending the night at Octavia’s,” he says to Bellamy casually.

Bellamy’s hand is gripped tight around his shoulder before he can even think about it. “You can’t — not with Octavia — my _sister —“_

Murphy wrenches his arm out of Bellamy’s grip. “Hey,” he says. “First of all, fuck off. Second of all, I’m asexual. Thirdly, no, and lastly, _fuck off._ ”

“What,” says Bellamy, but Murphy is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i have never seen sharknado 2 but i have seen ice twisters.
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


	2. murphy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for depressive thoughts + anxiety
> 
> this is Gay

His new-student special has worn off by the middle of September, so he’s back to his four regular clients. He starts his week by buying a big wall calendar, schedules them with deference to Blake’s work schedule. 

He starts his week with Roan.

Roan is good. Roan wants the full boyfriend experience. Roan wants him to stay overnight.

He has only just started doing in-calls. He has Emori programmed into speed dial on his phone. He negotiates until he can get exact times for check-ins, sets vibrating alarms for every six hours. 

He went by Alex when he worked with the Society. Kind of a half-tribute to his dad, in a fucked-up way. But he’s out of his contract now, and after Blake drops him off, and Roan answers the door with his hair tied back and his eyes gentle, something fractures a little in him. 

Roan makes him dinner. 

He is not allowed to accept food. He is not allowed to accept food from clients, but — he watches Roan make it, and Roan allows him to help, even as his inexperience betrays him. Roan laughs and says “You’re allowed to be bad at cooking, you’re still in college,” and his voice is rough and warm and —

The food is good. The food is very good.

They sit on the couch and Roan talks about his day and lets his hair loose and he leans over and starts absent-mindedly braiding it. He doesn’t feel like he’s been drugged, if the knot of anxiety still in his chest is anything to go by. 

It’s. Roan has done nothing to earn this distrust. Roan pays a fuckton to get an escort when he just wants a lover, only needs a lover, and —

“You can call me Murphy,” he says, with no preamble, and it was so fucking stupid, he cut Roan off, he didn’t —

“Your last name?” Roan asks, getting it immediately, with no prompting. 

“Yeah,” he says, and _yes,_ it’s unknotting itself now.

“So your name is Alex Murphy,” says Roan, and, oh no, that’s wrong somehow, Roan is kind of laughing —

“Fuck off,” he says, but it’s good-humored, and he’s laughing now, too.

“Just,” Roan says, sobering his face. “Alex Murphy, like the greatest citizen our state has ever seen, also known as RoboCop.”

“What,” says Murphy, grinning helplessly. “RoboCop? That’s not a real thing.”

“Oh my sweet millennial child,” Roan says, and he’s pulling open the DVD case, because there are four movies and a 2014 remake apparently.

And he sucks Roan off, warm and rough, during the second half, because the 80s were _boring,_ even when they included cops who were also robots. And Roan threads one hand through his hair and doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just keeps it there, and it’s good. It’s nice.

After, Roan shuts off the television, and brings him to bed, and he shouldn’t have worried. Roan is as sweet as he’s always been.

He still checks in every six hours. He doesn’t give Emori reasons to worry.

In the morning, after his shower, he comes out dressed with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, so he can keep up the illusion of _college student._ There is a single book in his messenger bag. It was due back at the library two years ago. Blake would probably kill him if he ever found out.

Roan is in the kitchen, his hair mussed from sleep. Murphy crosses the space between them and leans up to press a kiss into Roan’s mouth, cut by the bristles of his beard. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” says Roan, his voice rough. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Um,” says Murphy. Blake is on his way now, might already be here. “I have class,” he edges.

“You can be a little late,” says Roan, and — is that a threat! — “You’re too skinny,” he says.

It’s not a threat. He needs to calm down. “Over-easy,” he says. He goes to the other end of the breakfast nook. He types _can you honk_ to Blake by muscle memory but doesn’t send it. Hesistates.

He needs to get paid. The envelope is on the counter. He can’t ask for it, otherwise Roan’s perfect illusion is shattered. Roan slides a plate of eggs over to him. Roan sets the envelope next to the eggs. Murphy looks up at him, confused. “Eat,” he insists. “Then you can go.”

Murphy is very good at obeying orders.

 

—

 

“Hey,” says Blake one afternoon while Murphy is sitting on the couch. There’s a book open in his lap, but he’s not reading it: Blake is the only thing in hours that has startled him out of _I’m a bad person I deserve to die I’m a bad person I deserve to die_ etc., ad infinitum until the alarm on his phone will tell him to chill the fuck out and get ready for work. Does he have work today? What year is it, even.

Blake. Right. “Hey,” he says. God. He’s so weird and fucked up but like, Blake can’t _know._ He needs to be _liked,_ that’s how he survives. Charismatic and charming and smooth. 

Blake gives him a weird look, but continues talking about whatever he wanted to say. Something about groceries, or the dishes, or whatever. Mission successful.

He closes the book and goes to his room after that. Lays down on his bed and stares at the ceiling. Doesn’t move for a long time. Tries not to think of anything. 

Gets up when his alarm goes off. Takes a shower. Shaves. Psychs himself into something resembling acceptable human behavior, drinks an entire cup of coffee in three burning swallows when that doesn’t work. “You nervous?” Blake asks him while he’s pulling on his shoes.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know, pre-show jitters.” 

Blake puts an awkward, large hand on his shoulder. He goes still underneath the touch. “You’ll do fine,” he says.

The unearned praise warms him more than the coffee did. He relaxes, easy. “Thanks,” he says.

This is something he can never have. Something he shouldn’t even want. And — it’s Octavia’s _brother._ He could never.

He’s fucked up. He’s so, so, fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roan is a game of thrones fan and he was a fan of the show before the book. he owns all the seasons on dvd. he likes the character whose mom abandoned him/hates him. he identifies with them. roan doesn't believe in blu-rays.
> 
> robocop (2014) is absolutely awful. i did not watch it. but i believe. 
> 
> this story takes place in michigan. i love michigan. the town is fictional.
> 
> thanks for reading, and thank you for your lovely comments! <3


	3. murphy II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> murphy visits his second regular client and is asexual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for: sub drop, subspace, bondage

He wears glasses to visit Marcus because Marcus is very into that. They’re clear lenses. He’s pretty sure he could benefit from real glasses: both his parents wear them — wore them — but. First off: money. Second of all, he doesn’t do anything that really requires them: he doesn’t drive, he doesn’t sit in the back of the class, he doesn’t watch television anymore, at least nothing he can’t pirate on his laptop. So he doesn’t bother.

They’re clear lenses and they’re big tortoiseshell glasses. Round. Blake had taken a double-take at his face and said: _those suit you,_ in kind of a surprised tone. Librarians. They’ve all got the same fucking kinks.

It’s his second in-call at Marcus’s house. Blake dropped him off in the dark. The lights were all off, and Marcus didn’t turn them on when he opened the door.  Murphy takes off his shoes, and then stands there, waiting to be told what to do. 

“What’s your safeword?” Marcus asks.

Murphy hesitates; there was a first-time client earlier this month that had asked _what’s your safeword_ and then slapped him across the face when he’d answered. _I didn’t say you could talk._ In general, he ignores most red flags in favor of the fact that _this isn’t a date_ and the fact that he gets cash dollars at the end of it, but that had been too much. For new clients, he has them wire him fifty dollars via PayPal first and then takes the remainder in cash, so he called that one off early, walked back home in the dark, anger seething through his fingertips: angry at himself for walking, but also for booking it in the first place, for not recognizing it before he got there. 

Marcus takes a step closer to him, presses a hand to his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks, all concern. “Do you need to go home?”

He lets himself smile, a jest. “Sorry,” he says. “Nerves.”

Marcus’ concern doesn’t abate, but he repeats himself. “What’s your safeword?” he asks.

“Bygones,” he says, an admission.

Marcus threads a hand through his hair, presses a kiss to the top of his forehead. “Good,” he says, warmth. “Are you ready to begin?”

 

—

 

The thing about Marcus is that he sets reasonable standards for Murphy to follow and if he can’t follow them, there are reasonable consequences. It’s not a game set up to make him fail. Sometimes Murphy cries anyway. Marcus always brushes back his hair and kisses away the tears. 

Marcus requires his submission: recognizes that he is a wild thing and that it doesn’t come easily to him; relishes the way that he lets himself bend to Marcus’ instructions, to his rules.

Look. Murphy doesn’t get a lot out of this. But he’s good at it, and at the end, he gets paid for it.

He’s spread out on Marcus’ bed, face-down, hands above him, cuffed to the headboard with soft cuffs. They’re buckled onto him: he’s unbuckled them before, looked up at Marcus with a shit-eating grin. Then he was given a new rule: keep the cuffs on, or there will be consequences. He obeys this rule now. As long as it suits him.

Marcus’ hands are huge and rough and warm against his bare skin. Marcus fucks him gently, like a lover, uses a condom, like a one-night stand, and then afterwards, reaches around to try and get Murphy off too, like a considerate person.

Murphy’s not that interested in his own orgasm. Marcus is half-boneless and kind of out of it, so it takes him several seconds to realize that Murphy’s unbuckled himself from the headboard, has slipped out of the cuffs, and then Marcus is on top of him again. “You know not to do that,” he says, curious and careful, both of Murphy’s wrists in one of his hands.

“Yeah,” agrees Murphy, grinning. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

 

—

 

Marcus slips a ring onto his uninterested dick, frowning a little. “What’s your color?” he asks.

“Green,” says Murphy, wondering if he should’ve taken a Viagra beforehand after all. Marcus doesn’t seem to find it a problem, and makes him pull his pants back on.  

Marcus takes him down to the guest room/office. There’s a ring set halfway into the wall. Marcus fastens different cuffs around his wrists: wider leather bands that aren’t soft on the inside. They chafe a little on the edges. He threads the chain between them through the ring, so that Murphy’s hands are fixed above his head, inflexible. Marcus attaches padlocks to each cuff. Murphy whines a little, dismayed. “Color,” Marcus says, dispassionate.

“Green,” Murphy admits, and Marcus rewards him with the ghost of a smile.

Murphy braces his bare feet against the floor, ready for whatever is coming his way. His torso is exposed; so is his throat. 

Marcus sits on the chair in the corner of the room. After a few seconds of watching Murphy, he gets up again, starts rifling through his desk, emerges with a stack of papers and his laptop. 

Marcus sits down again, opens his laptop, starts typing. Ignores him.

“You’re just gonna fucking leave me here?” he asks, rough. Something to cause a reaction. Anything.

Marcus doesn’t even look up.

He thinks about yelling, but something makes him stop. The muscles in his arms pulled up, the cuffs against his wrists. 

Whatever. If he wants to spend $300/hour doing this, Murphy’s not going to stop him.

His breathing. The typing. The pull on his wrists. His bare feet on the carpet. The wall against his bare back. He kind of closes his eyes. Kind of just exists like that, useless and ignored and not expected to do anything. The typing. The feeling in his arms: not pain, exactly, but stress. The constance of it. It’s good. It burns. It’s good.

A measure of time passes. Marcus stands up, stretches. Murphy’s eyes are open, tracking him, but like. It doesn’t really matter what he does. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says aloud. 

Murphy doesn’t say anything back. Marcus crosses to him, pulls his pants down, removes the ring, pulls his pants back up. “You don’t really care about getting off, do you,” Marcus says, not a question. Murphy sort of shrugs. Everything kind of feels like it’s insignificant, far away, like it’s not affecting him. Marcus unthreads him from the ring in the wall, but keeps his hands cuffed in front. “You want to join me in the shower?” Marcus offers. Another shrug. He’s down for whatever, as long as the cuffs don’t have to come off. 

Some things happen, then. Maybe: Marcus’s hand in his hair, petting him. Maybe:  Eventually, Marcus sits him down at the kitchen table, still shirtless, still cuffed. There’s a glass of water in front of him. “Drink,” Marcus is saying, which is an easy order, so. Coolness on his palms. His fingers touch each other around the edge of the glass. Marcus is reaching over, uncuffing him. Okay. Okay. Marcus passes him a sealed stack of crackers. He stares at them. “You need me to open them for you?” Marcus asks. 

Murphy makes a noise. 

Marcus opens the crackers. “Eat,” he says.

Murphy pulls one or two out of the packaging. Crunches it over his tongue. It tastes like butter and salt. Realizes how exhausted? he is, how satisfied.

“You don’t care about getting off,” says Marcus again.

“Yeah,” says Murphy, taking another cracker. He feels more awake? now, more aware. Shit, did he drop? He’s never dropped with Marcus before. He’s never dropped without the assistance or threat of pain. “Not really my thing. Sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” says Marcus, maybe out of reflex. “It’s almost time for you to go, are you going to be okay?”

“Mmm,” says Murphy. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks.” 

 

\--

 

He’s shaking on the ride home with Blake. He gets home and takes a scalding hot shower, and then sits on the couch staring into nothing until he finally gets his shit together enough to call Emori. She talks him down over the phone, and then he feels kind of okay again.

Then he goes out onto the shared balcony to watch as Blake lights a cigarette, takes a drag. “Didn’t know you still smoked,” he says, standing a step closer than he might normally.

Blake shrugs. “Only when things get really rough,” he says.

Murphy thinks about the past few days. He gets that.

Blake offers him a cigarette of his own. Murphy takes it, rolls it between his fingertips. Blake holds out the lighter, but Murphy doesn’t move to take it. Blake stares at him.

“You know the smoke?” he says, gesturing into the darkness. “From the fire, you know,” he clarifies.

“Sure,” says Blake.

“My parents used to blow it into my drink on summer nights,” he says. “They’d tell me it was spirits, coming up out of their graves. Into my grape juice.” He laughs a little, begins pulling the cigarette apart in his hands. “I brought my haunted coat to school with me so that all my classmates could smell the ghosts on me.” He shrugs then, small. “Octavia wants you to stop,” he says.

“Octavia doesn’t need to know,” Blake says, bristling.

Murphy shrugs again. “Sure,” he agrees. “But she’s just looking out for you.”

He wants to touch Blake. He wants to brush his fingertips across Blake’s, feel the warmth against his skin. Wants to quell the shaking inside of him with the beating of Blake’s heart. It’s not — romantic. He just wants — the _connection_.

He doesn’t do any of that.

He drops the remains of the cigarette into the blackness below them and goes back inside.

Bellamy stands outside a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may be saying to yourself: wow! $300/hour, murphy, that's a lot! consider this: murphy owes over $60k in student debt. that's also a lot.
> 
> anyhow. good stuff is coming murphy's way. remember kids, please don't forget aftercare when you're playing.
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


	4. murphy III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "why is this updating so quickly, lat?"  
> it's nanowrimo!!!!!!!
> 
> content warning for suicidal thoughts. this entire chapter is basically murphy having a panic attack, so. here you go!!

He wakes up disoriented. He wakes up dead. He wakes up afraid and shaking and —

He went under and Marcus fucked him over. Shit. He has work today. 

He’s not going to make it there. He’s not going to make it out of bed. 

What time is it? Why hasn’t his alarm woken him up?

His phone is dead. What time is it? Shit. 

Fumbles his phone into the charge port. He doesn’t own a clock because it’s the 21st century, he owns a phone. It has to restart first. Jesus Christ.

He sits up. Ow. Fumbles his way to the clothes pile in the middle of the floor. Searches around until his hand hits his laptop. Pulls it out of the pile. Starts it up. 

It’s the slowest fucking race in the world. Which will be the first to start up? Place your bets now, folks. Limited time only. Cash dollars awarded to whoever gets it first. 

All he uses his laptop for is to view his own website and to play Snake (the best game). It shouldn’t take —

His phone awakens first. It’s been used more often. It’s 3pm. He doesn’t have work for another two hours. Who with? Jaha, right. Creepy fucker. 

He’s still shaking. Slides open his phone. Texts Emori. _Kind of having an emergency._ Yeah. Gotta stay lowkey. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big —

He needs, like, a cup of hot cocoa. He needs Blake, and Blake’s strong hands, and his huge, warm voice, and — Jesus. He’s your roommate. God. He needs to get to Emori’s. She’ll know what to do. She knew what to do that time he tried to kill himself, she knew what to do that time he fucked up that other thing, she knew what to do after he went back home that first time for the holidays because maybe it would help, she knows what to do because she’s been there and he has to stop needing her he has to learn to take care of his own goddamn self and stop weighing on her he should just kill himself why is he such a fucking deadweight why can’t he just get it together and — 

_Can you get a ride here or do I need to send someone to pick you up?_

get it together get it together get it together

If she sends someone to pick him up then the Society is gonna know his new address and he doesn’t — want — that. Does he care? When does Blake get back from class? Does Blake even have class? 

Stop. He has Blake’s schedule. He wrote it down. Right. It’s. Here. It’s on his nightstand. 

He needs to not put his laptop underneath a pile of clothes. He’s gonna step on it. He’s probably already stepped on it. No, it looks fine, the screen’s not cracked. He needs to put it somewhere else. He’ll do it later. Stop. Everything is wrong. His arms hurt. His back hurts. Everything is kind of — why can’t he — Maybe he should go back to sleep.

_Murphy?_

Look. Here’s the schedule. He could just get up and check if Blake’s here. 

It doesn’t matter. He’s scheduled to be home. He already said he could take Murphy to Jaha’s. Is he gonna have to cancel on Jaha? No, Emori can fix him. Emori can fix him in time for — 

_Murphy, if you don’t pick up, I’m sending someone over._

shit fuck jesus christ she’s calling him

Unplugs his phone long enough to shove it against his ear. “Sorry,” he says into the microphone. Is it called that one phones? Into the talking part of the phone. God. God. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Murphy,” she says. “What’s wrong, you sounded okay last night, what’s happening, did something happen?”

Is she panicking? She would never. “No,” he says. “I don’t know. I just woke up, and everything’s bad, and I just.” He’s crying. What a fucking jesus christ. “I don’t know, Blake was smoking a cigarette and I told him not to because people cared about him and I’m a bad person and I’m fine and —“

“Murphy,” she says, and she’s this clear calm thing and he’s hysterical and he’s fucking —

One time he fucked Emori. That was kind of a good time. It didn’t last though. Nothing ever does, with her. She’s gonna discard him like she’s discarded every other thing in her life, and she’s gonna find out how fucking pathetic he is, and —

“ _Murphy,_ ” she says again. “John. Can you get someone to drive you over, or do you want me to send someone?”

“Yeah, I think I can get Blake to drive me.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. If you don’t text back within five minutes I’m gonna send someone to get you.”

“Okay. Sorry. Thanks.”

“No worries, _pakstoka._ ” 

 

—

 

Kind of helped. Anchored him, at least. Her voice helped. Yeah.

He pulls on a shirt. It’s bright green and reads: _But wait! We can’t reschedule, the duck breasts are thawing!_ Emori picked it up for him at a thrift shop some time last year. He presses his nose into it. It still kind of smells like her. He’s never gonna wash this.

Finds himself standing, then, barefoot in front of Blake’s door. Hesitates, knocks. No answer. Knocks again. Not anymore helpful. “You looking for something?” says Blake from behind him.

He whirls. Blake is standing there, holding a cup of coffee? tea? What does Blake drink? “Yeah,” he says, trying to affect some kind of ease to his voice. Inflect. Something like that. “I’m super sorry,” he starts. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission. Where’s his phone? “I’m having kind of an emergency, can you drive me somewhere a little earlier?”

“Sure,” says Blake, easy. Yeah. That’s what he wants. Copy that. “You need to leave now?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, all relief. “Just give me a second to put on socks.”

 

—

 

Texts Emori back. _Blake’s driving me sorry_

His phone buzzes in his hand. _What are you sorry for_

He almost smiles and texts back: _sorry._

Blake is waiting for him at the door, car keys in hand. He stumbles in putting on his shoes and Blake reaches out a hand to steady him. He leans away. “Sorry,” he says, a reflex. “Just. Please don’t touch me right now.”

“Okay,” says Blake, his eyes crinkling in concern. Jeez, is that fucking cute. Blake could probably wrap him in one warm arm and —

Christ. He needs Emori, like, yesterday. Actually, that would have probably been a good idea. Something to set up. He’s already got it planned for Ontari, but if —

Blake changes out the CD from the folky-rock stuff he usually plays to piano solos. And then he drives to the Society, to Emori’s apartment. 

She’s waiting for him on the porch. “When do you want to be picked up?” he’s asking. “Same time we discussed before, or later?”

Uhhhhh. “I’ll text you,” he promises. Blake accepts this, pulls out of the parking lot.

Emori wraps him into half a hug with her good arm. He shouldn’t call it her good arm. Her uninjured arm. Her normal arm. These aren’t any better. Her right arm. Actually, it might be her left arm, on his right side. Ugh.

“Hey, kid,” she says into his shoulder. “You fucked up.”

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” she says, and it’s already starting to unravel in his chest. “I’m gonna make it better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pakstoka - 'wolf' in Trigedasleng; Emori uses it to mean 'pack', or 'family', or 'brother'.
> 
> there might literally be another update today but i also have to get my car towed (rip) so. we'll see.
> 
> enjoying this? let me know! i can be reached here in the comments section, or at my tumblr: icetastrophe


	5. emori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha here’s the actual good stuff (hint it’s emori)
> 
> hey look! it’s a playlist! i’m really proud of this one, plz listen. https://open.spotify.com/user/22y434ouczazs3twidnkvgriy/playlist/4SKsI6DUAyKGKIHfy8bvUa
> 
> content warning for corporal punishment, i guess? also nobody looked at this chapter before i posted it

He’s wild around the edges, ragged. It’s not good for him. He’s taking off his shoes and putting them in her hall closet. “You have to fix me before five,” he says. “I have work.”

Emori glances at her phone. It’s 4:48. It seems unlikely. “Who’s your appointment with?” she asks.

“Jaha,” he says. She plucks his phone out of his unresisting fingers.

“Sit down,” she says, and watches as his knees buckle into the living room’s  chair. It’s wingback. It’s for decoration, not comfort. She frowns, and then browses John’s contacts until she gets to ‘Creepy Jaha’. He’s definitely the worst. “Are you Alex?” she hisses to him while the phone rings.

He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Noah,” he tells her. “It’s more biblical.”

“That’s weird,” she hisses back, and Jaha picks up. “Noah has to reschedule his meeting with you,” she says into the phone. Steels her voice. “We’re very sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Can I talk to him?” asks Jaha.

Emori is disgusted. “You may not.”

“Okay,” says Jaha. His breathing is heavy. Is he — Nope. She doesn’t want to know. She hangs up.

“He’s probably jacking off to your voice right now,” John says. He’s kind of smiling.

“That’s really gross,” she agrees, and sets his phone on the coffee table. “What’s your safeword?”

“Kill,” he says, and his eyes are big and blue and wide. He gives each of his safewords separate, one per client. It seems like it would be so easy to get them confused. She assumes that he doesn’t.

“You’re dropping hard,” she tells him, making sure that his eyes track her own. “I might pull you out of the scene if I think you’re a danger to yourself, alright? Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his eyes kind of close.

“John,” she says sternly, and his eyes open again. “Listen to my voice.”

“I’m listening,” he says, but he’s so out of it.

“Get on your knees,” she orders. 

He sinks gracefully to his knees from the chair, keeping his hands behind his back. 

“You’ve been faking subspace with Kane, haven’t you,” she says aloud. John swallows, nods. “That’s why when you dropped for real, he figured you were fine.” He kind of shrugs. She takes a couple steps backward, into the center of her living room. He follows, rests again on his knees. 

She needs to use pain to get her point home. She needs something that will _hurt_.

“Stand up,” she orders. Waits until he follows through. “Take off your shirt.” Waits again. He is stiff, awkward in his movements. There’s a ring of redness around his wrists, where something cut into them. She worries. “Hands to the wall.”

He takes the steps needed. Flattens his hands against the wall. She admires the angle of his shoulderblades against his skin, the curvature of his spine. 

“I want you to count,” she says. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is heavy; his breathing sounds louder than it should be.

She neatens the stripes against his body, watching as the blood wells up, as he just takes it: the purpose is not to break, but to endure. Watches as his eyes shutter closed, as his breathing becomes shallow, shaky pants; as he hides his face in his arm to keep something worse at bay.

As he says: “Ten,” and then. “Kill, Emori, _Emori_ , please —“

She sets her implement aside, and then, as if in slow motion, watches as he drops like a stone. She catches him around the middle, just barely making it; her shirt against his back makes him hiss and she lets him go. They both go down, then; sitting on the floor; John’s knees too weak to hold him, hers out of reflex. “Hey,” she says. “Hey, hey hey hey, you did so well, you are so _good,_ John."

He makes a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh, and she takes him by the wrist. “Come on,” she tells him. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah? Do you want me to carry you?”

“No,” he says. “No, it’s okay. I can walk.”

She brushes back a strand of sweaty hair from his face. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

 

—

 

She makes him a cup of hot cocoa, lets him sit up to drink it. _You are good, you are loved, you are important, you are safe,_ she keeps repeating, until he laughs and says: “I get it, Emori: I am beautiful, I am holy, I am unashamed,” which is a little like his normal self. 

“Good,” she says, stroking one hand through his hair. And then, with no preamble (the way she likes it): “Why do you think you dropped so hard? You haven’t needed me like this for — weeks.”

John raises himself up onto his elbows. She takes the hot cocoa from its precarious position on the bed, sets it onto the nighstand. He watches her hands, looks down at his own, at the ring of bruises? irritation? abrasions? around them. “I just,” he says, like he can’t explain it to himself, even. “I’ve never gone into subspace without some use of pain. And he just — he just tied me to the ring in the wall and _ignored_ me, and I — it was _really, really_ good, and I just — it was like I wasn’t even there anymore, Emori. And then I tried to act like everything was normal, and I went outside and I yelled at Bellamy — at Blake — and like, he wasn’t even mad or anything, I’m just terrible. It was just. Everything happened and it was really really good and then it was awful and then I came here. You —“ and, there’s that spark of uncertainty, “you said I could call you.”

“And I meant it,” she replies. “What do you want to eat?”

His expression clears. “You know,” he says. “King Xing will give you a box and a calendar if you order enough food.”

 

—

 

Eventually, she has to leave, curled around blankets, watching something called _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend._ Before she goes, she calls over Octavia to be with him. “Here,” she says at the doorway. “I think he’s doing better now, but he might still cry a little. There’s money on the counter if you want to order Insomnia Cookies or anything.”

“I got it,” says Octavia, and wraps a slightly surprised Emori into a warm hug. She’s holding two textbooks and a mess of homework to work on. “Stay safe,” she tells Emori.

Emori flashes her a quick grin, salutes. “Aye aye, Captain.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> murphy owns an lg env3. it still works. it is blue. emori has an extra proprietary charger at her house for him.
> 
> i originally envisioned the Society as like, a hotel but it’s actually an apartment complex. emori has a townhome. murphy had a bedroom in the front offices area when he lived/worked with the Society.
> 
> notes about subspace vs. subdrop:  
> subspace is the floaty headspace a sub can enter when in a scene. this is generally a good thing.
> 
> subdrop is what happens when you don’t take sufficient care of your sub after they go into subspace, which can result in depression/panic attacks/intense anxiety.
> 
> this is actually a true fact if you order enough food king xing (my local Chinese restaurant) will give you a box and a calendar. it’s just a cardboard box. but the calendar is pretty cool. (it has to be a lot of food though. it’s not the price point. it’s the amount of food.)
> 
> as always, your comments and kudos mean the world to me. you can always say hi to me over at my tumblr, @icetastrophe as well! thanks for reading! <3


	6. bellamy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title drop chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [yelling]

He picks Murphy up a quarter past ten. Octavia is with him. She also wants a ride home. “It’s a school night,” he says stupidly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Got a lot done, actually. Murphy’s a good study partner.”

“Glad to be of service,” says Murphy dryly, buckling his seatbelt. Octavia takes the back seat and Murphy slides in neatly on the other side. Across the middle seat, he watches in the rearview as their hands touch.

“Are you—?” he asks, not really even finishing the question.

“Aren’t you gay?” Murphy asks Octavia, like it’s a subject change.

“I don’t know,” says Octavia. “Aren’t _you_ gay?”

“I dunno,” says Murphy, like he has to think about it. “We both went to Pride last summer, so we’re certainly probably _something._ ”

“That’s gay,” says Octavia, like it’s a joke between them, and Murphy laughs. 

Bellamy still doesn’t know, really, if he’s allowed to have a crush on Murphy, if he has a hope of it ever being returned. He shoves it to the back of his brain and tries not to think about: the hook of Murphy’s jaw, the shape of his hands, the curl of his lips. Right. Not thinking about those.

 

—

 

Bad Movie Night rolls around again. Bellamy clears his schedule so that he can help Murphy make puppy chow in the kitchen beforehand. “What are you watching tonight?” he asks, elbow-deep in powdered sugar.

Murphy shrugs. “This shitty vampire movie that Octavia found. It’s October, so it’s kind of in season, I guess. It’s called _Rufus_ and it came out in 2012, but then it was rereleased as _Hunted_ in 2015 for some reason.”

“Cool,” says Bellamy. He doesn’t know if that’s cool or not. “You still have stuff right after this, though, right? You still need a ride?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy after a beat. “That’d be great.”

 

—

 

He doesn’t manage a seat next to Murphy; he curls around Octavia on the couch, limbs tangled together. He gets to sit on the floor next to Bombshell Blonde Clarke Griffin, med student and local prude. She gives him a kind of shy smile, and he returns it, so. Maybe there’s something there.

The movie is. Weirdly okay. It’s definitely got a sort of aesthetic to it. It’s set during the winter, and it’s got a pretty okay indie soundtrack, and the actors are pretty decent.

“That actor looks kind of like you, Murphy,” points out Octavia.

“I don’t see it,” says Murphy. Bellamy can kind of see it. 

“Say _I’m not so tough,_ ” Octavia goes.

“Fuck off,” says Murphy, but he’s kind of laughing.

When the movie ends, Murphy untangles himself, stands up and says out loud: “Alright, guys, I’ve got to leave for work so now is a good time to get out of here.”

Unexpectedly, Clarke says from the floor: “You don’t have to do this, Murphy, your body is a temple.”

Murphy turns back around to face them. Bellamy flinches, but then Murphy cocks a smile onto his face. “Yeah, Clarke, you know, you’re right. My body _is_ a temple.” His smile drops, and then, deadpan: “How much you think I can get for it?”

The assembled crowd — Jasper, Monty, Maya, Harper — laugh, and Murphy disappears down the hall. Octavia swears softly, and then starts ushering everybody to get out. 

Next to him, Clarke has gone still. Bellamy hesitates, and then — sets a hand on her shoulder. “You should leave,” he tells her.

“Yeah,” she says, not looking at him. “Yeah, I don’t know what I was — I’ll get out of here.”

When Clarke and the others are gone, Bellamy finds himself standing outside of Murphy’s door. Octavia is still in the living room, biting her lip and typing on her phone.

The door is kind of ajar. Bellamy pushes it a little more ajar, and then again, until it is open. Murphy is standing, brushing his hair back from his face. He looks up as Bellamy enters.

His mouth is moving before he can really think about it. “You know,” he says. “Clarke is right. Your body is a temple.”

Murphy’s face _twists,_ in disgust, in disbelief. “Fuck you, Blake —“ he’s starting, and —

Murphy is such a wild thing. He is beautiful, and bright, and _untamed_ , and Bellamy still takes the step forward and says solemnly: “Your body is a temple, and you are the god it was built for.” And reaches out: his hand a perfect fit to Murphy’s jawline, his thumb resting on Murphy’s cheek. 

And Murphy leans into the touch.

_Fuck._

Murphy takes a step back then. “I have to go to work,” he says, at the same time that Bellamy drops his hand.

“Sorry,” says Bellamy.

“We have to talk about this,” says Murphy. “But. Later.”

“I didn’t mean —“ Bellamy is starting. He doesn’t know what he didn’t mean. He doesn’t know what he did mean.

Murphy holds up a hand. “Later,” he says again. 

They don’t talk in the car. Bellamy plays the Fleet Foxes EP. Murphy doesn’t comment on the music change. Murphy doesn’t say anything at all.

 

—

 

Weeks pass.

Murphy gets. More closed off. He was closed off before, but like, they weren’t friends before they were roommates, they never made time to hang out. They didn’t really exist in the same social spheres, except for Bad Movie Night. But Murphy backs off even the little social graces he had extended; he doesn’t spend any time in the living room, just in his own bedroom. Leaves notes for Bellamy when he needs rides, doesn’t go out of his way to be friendly, is just kind of standoffish and grumpy.

So Bellamy backs off. He stops trying to go to Bad Movie Night. He stops trying to bring it up. He stops trying to really connect with Murphy, in any real way. 

He’s got a lot on his plate: his thesis project, his classes, his work at the library. He doesn’t need to worry about his roommate, who he doesn’t really _know_ anyway. 

He stops thinking about Murphy’s warm skin underneath his fingers.

He does.

Really.

(He doesn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gay. also hunted/rufus is a great + terrible movie. please watch it.
> 
> i've stopped replying to comments in favor of writing more words faster. i still love each and every one of them. thank you. also, you can always talk to me on my tumblr, @icetastrophe! <3


	7. murphy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for thelonius jaha being weird and gross
> 
> also content warning for ontari, like, existing
> 
> and lastly, content warning for Bad BDSM Practices
> 
> snapbacks are gay
> 
> edited 11/26/2016 to make it more clear that murphy is in an elevator/apartment building

It gets easier as soon as Blake starts dating Clarke Griffin.  Then the pressure is off, for him to say anything, for him to do anything about anything. 

Anyhow. Blake is dating Clarke Griffin now, probably because they’re both overachieving grad students, which is fine. It’s fine. It’s like, your body your choice, Blake, whatever.

He learns that they’re dating because Octavia texts him about it, and then, _are you okay?_

 _It’s fine,_ he texts back, a purposeful non-answer. Octavia doesn’t bring it up again. 

Clarke comes over to the apartment and sticks close to Blake, easy around him. Then she disappears into Blake’s bedroom, and Blake closes the door, and they — And he goes for a walk.

No he doesn’t. 

 

\--

 

Becoming Noah is one of the hardest things he does on the regular. 

Here’s what he knows about Noah:

-He is a frat boy  
-He is a trust-fund kid  
-He’s probably a sophomore  
-His major is gonna be economics  
-He’s always excelled at math  
-He’s a Dominant  
-He’s a fucking jerk 

Noah wears a yellow snapback that he borrowed from a lesbian from the Society, but he doesn’t think she’ll want it back. He wears a white tank top that has the Spotify logo on it, and his Spotify playlist is the Blue Neighborhood remix album. He doesn’t think of himself as gay, but he is gay. It will hurt his family when he comes out of the closet, but he will also grow up to be a conservative, a genuine Log Cabin Homosexual, so really, who cares. 

Murphy used to think that maybe Noah was Jewish, but that was before the Jewish fraternity brought him hot chicken soup for free when he had the flu last year. Also, he doesn’t know enough about Judaism to really make a call on that.

Noah wears baggy jeans and a pair of sneakers that Murphy found in a dumpster. Underneath the jeans, he wears leggings, which are easier to deal with after he’s shed most of his clothes, better to move around in. 

The whole dress up thing is not really worth it, in the long run. Jaha always blindfolds himself before Murphy arrives. Today he’s kneeling at the foot of his own bed, naked and hard. Noah is unimpressed. Noah strips down to the leggings and tells Jaha to fold them neatly, he’ll be back whenever he feels like it. Then he goes to the kitchen to make himself a snack. 

This is the part that makes it kind of worth it. Murphy raids Jaha’s kitchen, making a lot of noise, and packs a lot of nonperishables into his bag. Money is good, but he doesn’t say no to free food. Then he wanders back to Jaha’s bedroom, has him lie down on the bed, and opens his bottle of maple syrup and pours it all over Jaha’s chest.

Jaha’s gasp might be interesting if he were like, into that kind of thing.

He spends most of his time after that licking Jaha’s chest clean of the maple syrup, giving some special attention to Jaha’s nipples. The maple syrup is a nice contrast to the taste of Jaha’s skin. Then Noah edges Jaha for a while, bored and uninterested. When Jaha gets to a certain level of panting, Noah takes his hand away, loudly eats a cracker above Jaha’s chest, letting the crumbles fall onto the newly-licked skin. Jaha moans. Gross. Noah lightly slaps his face: “Shut up,” he says, through cracker, spraying crumbs. 

His envelope is in the top drawer of the nightstand. $4k, pretty good. He jerks Jaha off with one hand, and then does it again without waiting for his refractory period, chafed and raw, until Jaha is whimpering underneath his touch, and then makes Jaha suck his own cum off his fingers. Washes his hands after that, dresses back in his Noah clothes, and gets into Blake’s car.

“That’s a different look,” says Blake, raising an eyebrow. 

Murphy feels himself loosening a little. Blake has a girlfriend, he’s not going to make another pass at him, he’s getting laid regularly, he’s not going to demand sexual favors from Murphy instead of rent or anything. He lets himself laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “That guy’s kind of gross.” It’s the most information he’s really volunteered about any of his clients. It’s the most he’s said to Blake in weeks.

Blake makes a sympathetic face. Then they get home and Murphy takes a very long, very hot shower and puts away his free groceries.

 

—

 

He lets himself chill out after that. Well, as much as he ever chills out — mostly he thinks a lot about how he deserves to die, and then he thinks about his schedule, and sometimes he lays in bed and does nothing for hours and hours at a time. But now sometimes he sits in the living room and thinks about what a worthless person he is. And now sometimes Blake will come over and sit on the other end of the couch and read a book, or they’ll watch shitty television together, and they’ll insult it, which is good. Or Clarke comes over and she and Blake do paperwork on the table and he’ll come into the kitchen and make lemonade, or really bitter tea, and they don’t even pay attention to him, and it’s nice. It’s really nice. 

At the end of that month, he has an appointment with Ontari.

Here’s the thing about Ontari: Ontari was the reason he was able to get his own apartment, the reason he got out of the Society, the reason he now enjoys his lavish lifestyle of being able to pay his bills on time and also chip away at his student debt. But also: he doesn’t charge Ontari based on hours spent with her: he charges her based on _damage done_ to his body. He always has to take time off, afterward. 

Also, Ontari isn’t really good at aftercare. Like. It’s not that she doesn’t _try._ It’s that she’s not really a caring or careful person, and she doesn’t get the notes right. So he has to book Emori afterward, make sure she has time enough for him. And Emori’s time is expensive, no matter how much she likes him. 

So, like. An appointment with Ontari is a whole Thing. Once or twice a month is enough for him. 

To Ontari, he is John Murphy, John Murphy, who killed his father, who took up prostitution after dropping out of school. Not that she knows most of that information. He just doesn’t really bother to put up any pretense with her.   

Not that Ontari even calls him by his name. Mostly she calls him _whore,_ or more recently, _bitch,_ occasionally _slut._

And then. There’s a third point to consider: Ontari hurts him, and he’s _really fucking into that._ He doesn’t really get the orgasm thing, but he _understands_ pain, and Ontari gives him that. 

So he clears his schedule for the next week. He books Emori’s time in advance. He makes sure that Blake has free time, a huge bubble of it, before and after his appointment, which is from Friday afternoon to Saturday morning. It’s a lot of hours, and it’s a lot of potential damage, but it’s also a lot of money. 

Blake drops him off ten minutes early. Emori texts him five minutes out, while he's riding up the elevator: _Otan’s in the hospital. Call me._ He calls her.

She picks up. “Are you okay?” he asks before she can say anything.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Otan — he’s in the ICU though, and I’m not going to be able to —“

“It’s fine,” he says, cutting her off. He has no idea what the ICU is. It doesn’t sound good. “Emori, don’t worry about it, I can cover it.”

She’s fucking out of it, because she just says, “Okay, okay, thanks. I’ll call you when I know anything.” 

He lets her hang up. God. If he doesn’t have Emori afterwards, if Blake just takes him back to the apartment — 

He will not survive. He will try to kill himself again. He will wind up back in the psych ward, under suicide watch — 

He can’t cancel on Ontari now. It will come back worse for him later. He doesn’t have anyone else. 

Mbege is eight states away. He can’t afford a plane ticket for Mbege, not even afterwards. He won’t ask Octavia, not at this point in her semester. He doesn’t have a fucking support network.

He calls Blake.

Blake picks up. “Hey,” he says. He just has to say it. He can’t. He has to. Come on. “I need to change our plans.”

“Okay,” says Blake over the phone, smooth. “Do you need me to come and pick you up?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “It’s just that — I’m going to come back from this appointment really wrecked. I usually have someone to take care of me, but she had an emergency. I need — I just need someone to watch over me, for a while. It’s like — it’s just, like, aftercare, yeah?” He swallows. “I can pay you.”

“Okay,” says Blake, easy. “I can do that. Do you need me to pick you up sooner?”

“No,” he says, and he is all relief. “I’m sorry for asking.”

“It’s no problem,” says Blake, and is he —? It doesn’t matter. He has Clarke now. He wouldn’t. 

“Okay,” he says again, and then finally. “Thanks.”

He hangs up. He squares his shoulders. He steps out of the elevator. He knocks on Ontari’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus!scene
> 
> Raven comes to Bellamy’s desk sometime that evening. “Do you know how to use an incognito tab?” she asks, disbelieving.
> 
> “What?” he asks, shutting the laptop in front of him. 
> 
> She scowls and comes around behind him, opening the laptop back up. “Hey!” he says. “Don’t —“
> 
> “Look,” she says. “Everybody over the network can see what you’re doing. Use private browsing, honestly. This is worse than the time you looked up ‘what is asexual’ for three hours.”
> 
> “Can you not,” Bellamy says, burying his face in his hands. “I’m just helping out a friend.”
> 
> \--
> 
> the ICU is the Intensive Care Unit, Murphy
> 
> thanks for all the kind comments on ch7! they really do make my Entire Life. sorry about the Long Wait time for this chapter, my country voted on a thing and i am very scared for the future of our freedom, etc., etc.,. anyhow, i hope you are having an excellent day!!! <3


	8. murphy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS THANKS FOR STILL READING
> 
> content warnings for: no kink negotiation, collaring, whipping, safeword usage, choking (unintentional and intentional), ball gags, nipple clamps, subspace, objectification, not good aftercare, blindfolds, bondage, violence, drug use (tylenol+codeine, vaping), --might have missed something, let me know on twitter or tumblr or in the comments
> 
> SOME SERIOUS NON-CONSENT (technically dub-con because murphy Doesn’t Say No but like… coerced consent is non-consent) - the Worst Bit is under the asterisks and stops after the asterisks again

When Ontari lets him in, she glances him up and down and says: “You’re shaking. Go take a shower,” and he sets down his bag on the chair in her entryway and asks her to repeat that because _what,_ and she holds up his hand in front of his face and says “See?” so he goes.

You have to take an elevator to get to Ontari’s apartment, because it’s in a hi-rise and the people that live there are too rich to take the stairs. Ontari’s apartment is a two-bedroom, and she lives alone. He has to go through her bedroom to get to the bathroom, and he closes the door and strips. Turns the water on, avoids looking at himself in the full-length mirror.

God. God. _Emori_ —

Look. He has a backup plan. Bellamy’s going to be there. He’s gotten himself through a session with Ontari without support before; even if Blake fucks up, he’ll be okay. He will get through it. He can make it through without calling Emori.

Emori’s got other stuff to worry about.

The water is pleasantly warm, but he turns it up a couple degrees, enough to scald himself. Enough so all the blood rises to the top of his skin, like a constant blush, like a sunburn. He turns the water back down again, so that his skin returns to its normal pallor. He uses Ontari’s shampoo on his hair without really thinking about it, kind of regrets it but figures she’ll find an excuse to hit him anyway.

Takes a deep breath. Who cares, really? Anything that happens afterwards is a problem for Future Him to deal with, and he doesn’t know that person yet.

He turns the water off and dries himself with one of Ontari’s big, fluffy towels. Hangs the towel back up. Cracks open the door to Ontari’s bedroom. Cold air. Shivers.

She’s sitting on her bed, legs crossed, biting her bottom lip, reading a book. “You want me to put clothes on again, or what?” he asks, and his voice is steady.

She frowns at him. “Get dressed,” she says, so he ducks back into the bathroom and obeys. Comes back out into the bedroom.

He stands at the end of her bed, clasps his hands behind his back. She rises from her seat, fluid, and touches her fingers to his throat, feeling for his pulse. “Do you need to cancel today and go home?”

“No,” he says, and he’s not lying.

“Hmm,” she says, and takes her hand back. “What’s your safeword?”

“Toronto,” he tells her.

She nods, and then bites her bottom lip again, uncertain. “You ready?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, and lifts his chin. He doesn’t miss Ontari’s hiss of approval, and then the collar is fastened onto his neck. It’s pulled one notch tighter than he would like it, but not enough to restrict his breathing. She makes him take off his sweater, and then his shirt, and buckles soft cuffs onto his wrists.

“You still as uninterested in your dick as I am?” she asks, and he kind of shrugs. She makes a dismissive waving motion, so he gets his pants and boxers off. She points away, back to the living room. “Put your clothes with your bag and hang it up in the hall closet,” she orders, and he goes. Is very _aware_ of his nakedness when he passes by the living room window, of how that nakedness makes him vulnerable because of the cuffs. He deals with it.

When he returns, she bends and fastens similar cuffs around both of his ankles. Both sets of cuffs are a nice matching shade of baby blue. He assumes that the collar is the same. She produces a lead, then, fastens it to the front of his collar. Gives an experimental tug.

He lets out a grunt, and then follows her as she leads him back out into the hallway, to the second bedroom. Any resistance chokes him, which is. It’s whatever. He can take it. Inside is the spanking bench he’s come to dread, and whatever the hell else she even keeps in here. It doesn’t really matter — Ontari pushes him onto it, and she’s strapping him in, and he lets his head hang down, and —

Ontari pulls him up by the hair. “I’m going to make you _cry,_ ” she promises.

“Okay,” he agrees, which is what he says every time, and then she connects something to the front of his collar, some kind of chain, so that he can’t really lift his head, and it’s pressing in, and —

She doesn’t ask him to count. She starts hitting him, and — It’s just a stripe’s worth of fire, and he can’t struggle, there’s pressure at his wrists, his throat, his ankles —

Usually he can get into it, ride out the pain. Match his breathing to the hits. It makes it — not so much _pain,_ but something he is good at, something to endure. Something to focus on. But — it’s his throat. He can take it. Everything is one thing: his back, his ass, his wrists, his throat, his throat, his throat —

_I’m going to make you cry._

He can’t let it get that far. His breathing is harder to control. He is going to black out. He is going to die. Struggles against the cuffs: no give. “Toronto,” he says, barely more than a breath. “ _Toronto,_ ” he says again, louder.

She stops hitting him. She drops the — cane, probably. The — something is removed from his collar, and then she’s releasing him from the bench, lets him sink to his knees, and then, up again onto his hands. She crouches to his eye-level. “You need to stop?” she asks.

“No,” he says, maybe lying. “The —“ he gestures uselessly to his face, and then drops his hand. “The collar’s too tight.”

She reaches forward. He flinches back, hard. She sets her hand down. “Take it off yourself,” she says, not a demand, but not really gentle, either.

He shifts his weight back onto his knees. Works his hands at the clasp at his throat, unbuckles it, and pulls it free. Drops it. The collar is baby blue, like he thought.

“Do you need to stop?” she asks again.

He swallows. Now that the collar’s off, he feels fine, and kind of stupid. “No,” he says again. “I’m fine. You want me back on the bench?”

She looks at him, assessing. “No,” she says. “Come into the living room,” and then she sweeps out. He rises, a little unsteady, to his feet, and follows. Ontari snaps her fingers twice and points to the floor in front of the couch, so he goes to his knees. His back doesn’t really hurt as much as he thought it did. Without the collar, everything is better again. He can _think._ “Mmm,” says Ontari, musing. “On the couch, actually. Sit next to me.” He rises from his knees to sit on the couch, next to her. It stings, but it’s not so bad. Ontari gets up again, presses a hand to his chest: “Stay,” and then retrieves something from somewhere behind the couch — he doesn’t turn to look. She connects his wrist cuffs together, in front of him, and then presses a hand to his jaw. He lets it drop open, and she uses a finger to open wider and pushes a ball into his mouth. He bites down. She pulls the straps home, buckles them.

“What’s your safeword?” she asks. He grunts four times, unintelligible. She ruffles his hair, almost affectionate. “Good boy,” she says, and then finds the remote to the television, flips it on, and navigates to Netflix. “You wanna watch something actually good, or are you gonna sub out and not even pay attention?”

Murphy grunts an answer, and she laughs and pats his face, condescending. She puts something on, maybe one of those new superhero shows Netflix is really into, and yeah. He kind of likes that, kind of likes just existing with her, and then she puts nipple clamps on him, and the pain is something to focus on. Time passes, maybe two episodes’ worth.

She braces a hand on his chest, ignoring the drool that has dripped there, and takes off one nipple clamp. He yells into the gag, and then she does the other one, and she lets him sit for several seconds, breathing, as the blood rushes back into them. When she decides he’s had enough time, she snaps her fingers and points to the floor. “Hands and knees,” she says, and he gets down. She puts her feet on his back, and he hangs his head down, dripping spit. That happens for a while, and then she removes her feet, and it’s cold, and he kind of whines behind the gag.

There’s a hand at his hair, and she pulls his head up, and he glares at her half-heartedly. She gives him a smile, victorious, and undoes the buckle of the gag. He spits it out and closes his mouth, feeling how his teeth fit together again. She pushes against his shoulder, and he lowers himself back into a kneeling position. She unclips the cuffs from in front of him, manipulates his wrists behind him, and attaches them with something that feels like a carabiner clip. Close enough that he laces his fingers together. She tips his chin up, gentle. “Open,” she says, and he opens his jaw, apprehensive. All she does is place a straw between his lips, and he sucks gratefully. He empties the glass, and she takes it away. She touches his face, makes him look her in the eye. “You ready for the next part?” she asks.

“Bring it,” he says.

—

Ontari puts him back into the second bedroom. Cuffs his hands above him and then to the ceiling. There’s strain in his shoulders — nothing bad now, but it’s gonna get worse later. Says again, “I’m gonna make you _cry,_ ” and he says “Bet you can’t,” because he’s an _idiot_ and he can’t see her but he can feel the bright stripe of her nails against already-there marks and he — Yeah, okay. He whimpers.

She makes him cry inside an hour, uses that awful sharp whip thing that he only knows as _please no, get it away from me._ Lets him rest for a little bit, arms getting more tired and more painful, trying to shift weight to whatever foot he can to make it less _awful._ Spanks him about ten times to finish it off, and then lets him off the wall.

He drops to his knees. She leads him by his cuffs to kneel in front of a chair, where she sits and lifts up her skirt. “Get me off in five minutes and I’ll hand-feed you your dinner. Otherwise you have to sit and eat it cuffed. You got it?”

He whines, and she pulls him by his hair to shove his face into her pussy. He licks. She presses up against the back of his head. It gets kind of hard to breathe. Everything is wet, and warm, and moist. She shoves his face deeper towards the end, and he can’t breathe at all for several seconds, and he raises his hands to maybe pull away but she finally lets him go. “Good boy,” she says, breathless. He feels a flicker of pride. He wipes his face against his shoulder.

“Kitchen, now, slut,” she tells him, so he struggles to his feet. She frowns, and he knows she’s missing the collar around his throat and leading him around by it. He doesn’t say anything. He’s a good boy. He waits for her to finish frowning, and she gets out the collar again. He flicks his eyes down to it, then back up to her face. “Not gonna choke you with this right now,” she promises. “Later, maybe. But not right now.” So he raises his chin and lets her put it on him. It’s just there, not too tight. She clips the leash to the front, leads him all the way to the kitchen.

She drops the lead, lets it trail down the length of his spine — wow, even that hurts — uncuffs his hands and gives him a knife and carrots to chop. “Isn’t this, like, against the rules or something?” he asks, but he starts anyway, nice big even slices.

“Against the rules of what?” asks Ontari evenly, setting something up behind him. Turning on the stove. Everything she makes is pre-packaged ingredients and dead easy, but at least she’s stopped eating and serving him frozen lasagna.

“Like,” he says, and _why is he talking._ “Giving your sub a knife. That seems. Opposite.” Pops a couple carrot slices in his mouth so that he will _shut the fuck up._

“Subbing isn’t _captivity_ ,” says Ontari. “You’re not an unwilling subject. You’re here because you want to be here and you’re getting something out of it. You get hurt because I like hurting you. You get tied up because I like tying you up. And you’re chopping carrots for me because you’re good at cooking and I want you to do a service for me.” She sweeps around behind him, fills a glass of water. Sets it down next to the cutting board. “Drink.”

He sets the knife down and drinks the water. She refills it and makes him drink two more glasses. Then sticks two fingers in his mouth — he chokes, surprised, but drops his jaw and lets her explore the inside of his mouth. “Swallow,” she says, and he swallows, open-mouthed, around her skin. She withdraws her fingers and wipes his own spit on his cheek.

“Wh —“ he says, even though he knows better.

“Press your lips together,” she tells him. He obeys, and she smoothes duct tape over his mouth. One, two, three pieces: across his lips, his cheeks, his lower jaw. Slaps him a little, and he braces himself against the counter for more. “Didn’t say you could talk, worm,” she reminds him. “Didn’t say you could eat, either. Keep chopping.” One more slap, and then she leaves him alone.

He chops through the carrots, grunts when he’s done, and she replaces the carrots with potatos and then onions. Sets a little candle next to him while he’s doing the onions, which is. Thoughtful. He guesses she prefers when she’s responsible for his crying, rather than onions. Eventually she stops handing him vegetables and directs him to the pillow by her table.

He hurts. He wants ibeuprofen and a nap. He tries to curl onto his side, but that hurts too, Ends up face-down on the floor with the pillow underneath his chest, trying to avoid all the bits that hurt. Ontari lets him stay like that for a bit, steps over him to eat her own dinner. Eventually she tugs him up by his hair into a sitting position. “C’mon, whore,” she says. “Eat your supper, then you can have your break. I cut it into little bites for you.”

He whines behind the gag, and she laughs at him, but she does reach forward and peel the tape from his face. It hurts, but it’s a different pain from the rest of his aches, so he welcomes it as best he can. He licks his dry lips and braces his palms against the floor, steadying himself.

He makes it good for her, still. Suckles at her fingers, gives her those wide, scared eyes she likes so much. The _please don’t hurt me anymore_ eyes, makes her feel all powerful. Doesn’t bite. Chews and swallows before accepting another morsel. At the end of it he eats her out again, a not-entirely-unpleasant dessert. Her hand in his hair, guiding him. Less struggle for breath this time. He comes away from it pleased with himself and kind of damp. “ **Very nice** ,” says Ontari, and he feels that same frisson of pride. Professionally.

The leash comes off. She sets it on the table. “Time for your break, whore,” she says. “One hour. You know where the first aid kit is.”

“Fuck you,” he says, hoarse, and makes his way to his feet.

“Later,” she promises.

—

He treats his own stripes, hissing when the first aid cream touches his back. If he doesn’t do it himself, then Ontari will, and she uses something different, something that burns its way up his spine until he’s left shivering and shaking and she just smirks. He takes 600mg of ibeuprofen, discarding the option of tylenol+codeine because he’s afraid it will make him sleepy. Messes around on his phone for awhile. He puts his soft pajama pants on but no shirt and definitely no underwear — too painful. He gets Ontari to unlock the balcony for him and he stands out there and vapes for a bit.

He waits to piss until his last ten minutes of freedom. After, he splashes his face with water and admires the marks that have started to form on his face. Lets himself back into the kitchen. Kneels at Ontari’s feet. She ruffles his hair, affectionate. She clips the leash back on, yanks him up onto his feet. Makes him take his pants off again because he forgot, leaving him bare-assed and shivering a little.

She drags him to her bedroom. Shoves him onto her bed. He scrambles to avoid contact with his back, and she smirks. She connects his wrist cuffs together behind his back, presses him onto his stomach, cuffs his ankles together and draws them up to connect them to his wrist cuffs. A hogtie. Not the tightest she’s ever done. Almost comfortable, even. He lets his head drop and just looks up at her.

She looks way too pleased with herself.

She unclips the lead from his collar and threads a length of rope through the back of it, connecting it to — somewhere behind him. Makes him very — aware of how _together_ his limbs are, the limits of his movement. If he tries to relax any of his limbs, something tightens and he chokes. He wheezes through a few positions, and then turns his glare to Ontari.

“You stay good for forty-five minutes without asking for mercy, you get a blanket in your cage tonight,” she tells him. “You don’t, I’m taking the bottom mat out and you have to sleep on the bars. Got it?”

Murphy struggles against the hogtie. “Fuck you,” he says, which he’s pretty sure is allowed. “Make it half an hour.”

“Nah,” says Ontari, easy. “But if you squirm too much I’ll give you something else to think about.

Murphy makes an unhappy noise, and tries to keep still. But nothing is comfortable. If he keeps his hands way far up, he can breathe comfortably but his legs cramp up and his wrists start to hurt from the strain. If he tries to unbend his legs at all, he pulls on his shoulders and he has to tip his head way back and breathe more carefully. Ontari watches him for a while, very pleased with herself, but eventually she takes out a book and ignores him. He endures, until she says: “Fifteen more minutes. You need something to distract you?”

Murphy just wants it to be over. Anything she adds now is just gonna make it worse. “Yeah,” he says instead.

She yanks his head back with a hand in his hair. Forces his jaw open with her other hand instead of just asking. He doesn’t fight her: she just likes treating him roughly. She shoves something sharp and bitter into his mouth, clips it onto his tongue. It hurts to swallow around. She pulls on that and he sticks his tongue farther out, threads something through the end of the clip, connects that to his collar. He turns a glare to her. Drool is already dripping down his chin. “Twelve minutes, worm,” she reminds him. “Think about sleeping on cold bars all night.”

It will be miserable. Ontari keeps the room too cold, and his body heat isn’t enough even when he curls all the way into himself. It is just him, and the cuffs he wears, and his vulnerability. And nowhere to go. He could safeword out, but then Ontari would just — She would call him a coward, and he would feel bad about tapping out, and even if he goes to vape out on the balcony it won’t get rid of the anxiety in his chest. He just has to breathe through it. Endure. Come _on._

He lets himself go a bit after that. Carries on. Whimpers nearly constantly. Ontari seems pleased at least, although she goes back to her book. His brain kind of. Takes a break.

He comes back to himself when Ontari loosens the tie around his ankles. His head drops and it yanks his wrists up and his tongue hurts. She undoes his wrists next and his arms hurt. Clip comes off — oh god, _finally —_ and it hurts to just wiggle his tongue back into his mouth. Ontari’s got a hand in his hair. “Good boy,” she soothes. “You did good.”

“Do I get a treat?” he mumbles. Ontari’s hand tightens in his hair, forces his face up off the mattress. Slaps him once, twice, till he kind of struggles away from the third hit. Then she touches his cheek, soft, and he relaxes again.

“Was that a good treat?” she asks, overly sweet.

“Mm,” he says. “Hurt.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “But you like that.”

“Mm,” he says, noncomittal. He is… not as upset about it as he probably should be. Would probably enjoy it more if he wasn’t so exhausted.

Her weight leaves the bed, and he lays there and is kind of pleasantly tired. Happy, even, maybe. He got through it, it’s done with, it’s over. Til she gets fingers underneath his collar and drags him off the bed, and he has to follow or choke. Ah, yes. There’s the dog crate he sleeps in when he’s over at Ontari’s, not big enough to stretch his legs out in but better than a sleepsack. Now new and improved with what looks like two quilts and a bed-sized pillow. One for the bottom of the cage, on top of the bottom lining, one for himself to curl up in. It’s the little things that make it all worth it, right? (No.) She doesn’t shove him into it immediately: instead, gets bruising fingers around his jaw and applies a single strip of duct tape over his lips. “Go pee,” she tells him. “I don’t want to let you out of this until I have to.”

He grunts his affirmation and scrambles up to let himself into her bathroom. Doesn’t really have to go but stands there and lets it dribble out anyway. Flushes, washes his hands. Admires the tape gag in the mirror. Returns to his hands and knees in front of her. “You need a panic button?” she asks.

He shrugs. He’s never used it.

Slap. Ow. He glares at her. “You always need a panic button, worm. In case of an emergency.” Shoves one into his hands. A little plastic square with a raised button on top. “It calls my phone, and I’ll be right here. So use it if the house is on fire, or you’re dying, or you’re throwing up. Got it?”

Affirmative grunt, enthusiastic nod. When is she gonna leave him alone so he can go to sleep?

She takes hold of his face again and fixes a sleep mask — effectively a blindfold — across his eyes. The world blacks out. He whines behind the gag. She’s gonna be asleep, why does it _matter?_ She shoves him down and towards the cage, and he crawls in. Takes forever for him to get comfortable and lay down. The blankets are good, though. He puts the panic button underneath the pillow. He hears her shut and lock the cage behind him.

“I’m going to stay awake for awhile studying,” she tells him, somewhere above and to the right. “You’re gonna get your full eight hours asleep. And I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if I come to let you out in the morning and you’ve taken the blindfold or gag off.”

She does not. But she does anyway, big, long horrible threats, most of them involving pain, some of them a little ridiculous. It’s a nice monologue to fall asleep to. He wakes up a little later, confused, but he thinks it’s just Ontari turning off the light and going to bed herself. “Good night, whore,” she says very softly.

He makes a sleepy sound behind the gag, and she doesn’t acknowledge it. Then true slumber begins, and whatever he dreams, he doesn’t remember.

***

He wakes up breathing through his mouth and recoiling from nothing. His face hurts. Everything is still thankfully darkness, and he feels his face — the blindfold is still in place. He tries, a little frantic, to find the tape and smooth it back over his lips, but — the stickiness on the tape has dissolved, probably from his spit. Too wet. Balls up the remainder of the tape and throws it elsewhere, it doesn’t matter where. His mouth tastes filthy. Lays back down. Tries for a fitful rest.

Wakes to Ontari kicking his cage and he just sits up and waits for it to be over. “Hey, bitch,” she says. Her voice is all hoarse from sleep. “Today was gonna be awful for you, but now it’s gonna be worse. Come out and make me breakfast. And coffee.”

He crawls out. She takes off the blindfold. She doesn’t look angry. Mostly just not awake yet. She clips the lead onto his collar. He stands up, steps to the side so he can get to the bathroom. She yanks him back.

“I have to pee,” he says, aware that he’s whining.

“Too fucking bad,” snaps Ontari, so he follows her to the kitchen. She makes him stay still with a hand on his shoulder. Forces his mouth open around a ring-gag. Tightens it. He hears the click of a lock. In turn, she takes each of his wrists, touching the soft cuffs still there. Snaps tiny padlocks onto them. Does the same to his ankles.

He swallows. He swallows he swallows he swallows. He puts on the apron hanging on the wall, ties it himself behind his back. He makes her one cup of coffee with creamer, three poached eggs on toast, and two slices of applewood smoked bacon. Makes the same meal for himself, sets it aside. She fills a huge mixing bowl with water. He serves it to her, steps back, crosses his hands behind him. Waits.

She curls relieved hands around the coffee, drinks it without saying much for a long while. Then looks up to him, snaps her fingers, points at the floor with the mixing bowl and the water. “Drink,” she tells him. “Stay hydrated.”

When he gets on the floor, she pulls his arms together behind his back and clips them together. He lowers his face into the bowl, slurps as best he can around the gag. Whimpers some; maybe she’ll like that.

She gets a hand in his hair and holds him down anyway.

He is going to drown. He is going to die. He is going to die, face-down in a bowl of water on Ontari’s kitchen floor, with his hands tied behind his back. He chokes. He thrashes. The hand in his hair lets up, then shoves him back down.

She doesn’t drown him. He chokes enough that he throws up into the bowl, and it goes through his nose and his mouth and his throat burns. He is shaking. He is on his knees. Her hand is still in his hair, punishing and tight. He squirms against it, struggling weakly, but she doesn’t let up.

He should safeword out. Hazily, he is aware of this. That he should hum his tune and make her let him go. But it would be — such a waste. To go through all of this, and then give up partway through. Because he can’t take it. Because he can’t take a little pain, a little pressure, a little adventure.

So he doesn’t.

She drags him away from the bowl, and he shuffles away on his knees. Keeps his head down. “You got anything to say for yourself, worm?”

He moans, miserable. She laughs, cruel, but at least she sounds pleased with herself. “Yeah?” she asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t like that?” He moans again, more plaintive, and coughs behind the gag. His fists tighten behind his back, useless to him. “I’d have you eat me out, but you’re no good with just your tongue.” …Rude.

She finishes her breakfast. Then she unlocks the gag from behind his head and plucks it out from behind his teeth. “Break time,” she tells him, and he’s never been more relieved. She unclips his hands from behind his back. Removes the lead from his collar. “One hour,” she reminds. He doesn’t need the reminder.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. She pokes him with her foot. “Get,” she tells him, and he finally rises to his feet. Glances at his already-made breakfast on the counter.

He goes to take a shower instead.

—

He eventually gets out of the shower. He pulls at the collar, at the cuffs that he’s still wearing. He will get two more breaks today. One break on Sunday. He is going to make it. He has to make it. He brushes his teeth. He goes back to the kitchen. He microwaves his bacon and eggs. They come out all soggy and gross, but he eats them anyway, standing naked in the kitchen, up against the counter. He ignores the coffee. It’s cold, and he doesn’t care. He takes another 600mg of ibeuprofen. He brushes his teeth again. He goes out to the balcony and vapes for a long time. The flavor he has in the pen is called _coffee._ The other one he has with him is called _cookie dough._ They calm his shaking hands.

He goes back to her. He kneels at her feet. He keeps his head down. He doesn’t say anything. She cradles his chin in her fingers. “Aw, poor baby,” she coos, condescending and _awful._ “Lost your bite?”

He bares his teeth at her. She clips the leash back on to his collar.

***

He spends most of Sunday morning chilling out with Ontari and a little high on codeine. Very sleepy, not in pain, tied up. Snuggling, mostly, Snuggling except she’s in control, so his hands are trapped behind his back and she’s got her legs on top of him, keeping him down. His stuff is packed up already and she gave him an envelope full of cash — all that’s left is for Bellamy to call him when he gets here, and Ontari will let him go and he has the elevator ride down to pull himself together. It’s — He keeps breathing deep, because it will be over soon, just ten more minutes, that’s all. And then he’ll be in his own bed and _safe_ —

His phone rings. Ontari picks it up, thumbs it to _answer,_ and then holds it to his face. “Hey,” he says, like he’s a functional human being.

“I’m outside,” says Bellamy. “You need me to come up?”

“No, I’ll be down in a minute.” He leans away from the phone and Ontari slides it closed. “Lemme — lemme —“

Ontari laughs at him a little, helps him sit up. She tips him forward so that she can untie his hands, and he stands up. She stands up with him, and for a brief, horrible moment, he thinks she might kiss him. But she just says, “Thanks for coming over,” like this is _fine,_ so he says “Thanks for having me,” and gets his bag and slides his shoes on and gets it together in the elevator.

Tries to, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ontari makes him get dressed again so that she can talk to him as an Equal, so that he doesn’t feel disadvantaged/unequal/pressured when she asks him if he needs to cancel. also because she’s Petty As Hell
> 
> please let me know what you think of this story: here, in the comments section, on tumblr @icetastrophe, or via skywriting.


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